


If monsters cry

by LordessC



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Actually I can but that's just me, Actually compared to Ramsay's actions this is pretty soft?, Actually you should check out Blaiser's stories instead of this, Alternate Universe, Anyway don't expect anything from this, But Ramsay kind of had it coming, Characters may be a little out of character but I tried my best, Dark fic, F/M, Fanart, Femdom, Gen, Hurt Ramsay Is Best Ramsay, I Also Wrote This Instead Of Working, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Should Have Worked Instead, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I blame Blaiser for encouraging me to post this, It would be a better use of your time, M/M, Mentions of undeserved past abuse, My First Fanart, My Sansa is her own warning, Or Not. I'm So Lame It Wouldn't Have Made Much Difference, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Revenge, Revenge Sex (kind of), This is filthy as Hell, This is just plain awful but not in any nice way, This is my first post and I am SCARED, Well-deserved present abuse, Yeah... Mostly Instead of Working, coarse language, mentions of flaying, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-21 11:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18141470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordessC/pseuds/LordessC
Summary: Ramsay has lost the Battle of the Bastards, and is now kept in a cell in Winterfell, wrists and feet bound, waiting to be executed. But Sansa won’t let him leave this world without first paying for his crimes… Meanwhile, Reek and Theon fight against each other for dominance over Theon’s body: Theon knows he must defeat Reek, otherwise he will never be free of the monster who used to be his Master…(Comments are always welcome!)





	1. When monsters yell

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so, don't expect physical torture in this chapter, this is pretty much just Yara trying to "exorcise" Theon's fear of Ramsay through talking. Yes, Yara talking and not using her fists/weapons. I just think that... Yara would agree not to hurt Ramsay to respect Sansa's wishes to get her revenge on him completely by herself. (Because woman power :D) So anyway, the real deal is in the next chapter, which I have not completely finished writing yet:) so stay tuned for more! And anyway, I hope you will enjoy this piece of garbage... (I'm not extremely self-confident, don't mind me).

When Ramsay wakes up, the first thing that he feels is pain. After a groan escapes his bloodstained lips, he almost curses and demands to know the reason why, only to be stopped when he realizes that wherever he is, it is not his bed. He is attached closely to a wall, his wrists and feet bound by skintight manacles, with little to no freedom to move his sore limbs. He opens his eyes, only to discover even something as simple hurts, and to realize he is in what appears to be a cell, illuminated only by the afternoon light coming from a small window carved in the same wall he is tied to, separated in two distinct parts by rusty iron bars —and then, all of the memories flood back to him. Oh. That’s right. He lost the battle. A mad, devastated, unforgiving Jon Snow almost murdered him, stopping only for two reasons: partially because letting his soaring, blazing fury completely take over would have meant letting Ramsay win, and, mostly, because Sansa, cold, regal Sansa, barely struggling in order for her wrath not to be too clear, had told him to stop. And, considering Ramsay had taken from her not only a little brother, but much, much more, Jon had obeyed. And now, he is here. He is not completely sure where “here” is, honestly, but he can only assume he must be somewhere in Winterfell. As he begins to ponder about what he ought to do in this situation, the door to the cell opens, only for him to note with some surprise that the first Greyjoy sibling to visit him is not Theon, if Theon is even still a Greyjoy, or even still Theon. As he is about to taunt —Yara, was it?—, Ramsay realizes he has trouble even getting the words out, his lips swollen and mind overcome by a sharp tang of pain indubitably caused by his bruised, messily cleaned-up face —who wiped off the blood, and why?—, but he does anyway.

“What are you doing here? You came to torment me? My Reek was too much of a coward to come and greet his Master properly, so he asked his big, manlier sister to take his place ?” 

“I know no person going by the name of Reek. You, on the other hand, are even more of a parasite than I had expected you would be.”

“You had imagined me, really? Does this mean both siblings cannot help but to think about me all the time?” He finds out with something resembling joy that the soreness is vanishing rapidly enough —nothing broken here—, and that he is getting used quickly to talking like this. He hates appearing weak, and the amount of time it takes him to pronounce each painful word is making him seem a bit too vulnerable for his own liking.

“Keep dreaming, _bastard_.”

He twitches, pure raw, unchained fury showing on his face for a second —only for it to be immediately suppressed. Soon, she would pay. He would flay her alive and force her to eat her own skin —and perhaps some of Reek’s too while he was at it—, cut off her breasts then have them sewn to her pubis to mimic these gigantic balls he had talked about, chop off all of her fingers and toes one by one, and only then would he hunt her, and she would beg for death to come and take her. Yes, she would pay. But for this to happen, he needs to keep a low profile —for now.

“I do not dream about it, let me reassure you. In fact, this unrequited attention is quite bothering. On another hand… Tell me, who is the vilest: the natural child who has been recognized as legitimate heir by his father, or the one following the orders a bastard who was called Snow under his own father’s roof?”

“Is this what you tell yourself to keep your insecurities at bay, or do you truly believe that your father accepted you as his son out of any other feeling than fear or cold calculation?”

“And what would you know about it?”

She chuckles.

“My own father made me his heir, because he has deemed me worthy of it. Considering the stories I’ve heard about Roose Bolton, I hardly think he would have considered you deserved to be given his name.”

“Your own father made you his heir because he had no other option, considering he had to choose between you and a cowardly, wanton and whiny little girl.”

“My own father made me his heir because I’m strong enough to turn you into a whiny little girl with my bare hands, without even having to tie you up or to use a knife.”

He raises a brow, not believing her for one second.

“Now that would be unoriginal.”

“Don’t worry, I have no intention of doing it. It is not I who hold the biggest grudge against you. You will pay for my great men whom you have killed, and for my baby brother, I have the guarantee of it. And that is all I need.”

“Lucky me, I won’t be mangled by an overgrown piglet tonight.” 

“If you think you hurt me with that insult, you can guess again. I seduce more women in two days than you ever could in your entire life.”

“If you believe I _want_ to seduce women, you can guess again.”

“Fine, then. I seduce more men in two days than you ever could in your entire life too, anyway.”

“What?!” He furrowed his brows and stared at her with a sickened, terrified look upon his face for an instant, only to regain his composure just as soon —but not without shooting her a dark glare first. “By this, I meant that I don’t wish to seduce women, because I don’t see any appeal in taking a woman with her consent.”

“Of course.”

He rolls his eyes, and scoffs.

 

“If you don’t have any business here, you can leave.”

“I know, but it’s not up to you to decide this. You are not the one in control anymore —and never will be again.”

He chuckles darkly, before smirking: a toothy, frightening grin, the kind which made his victims tremble, and Myranda wet. Of course he would still be in control. Even restrained, he knows he would find a way to enter her mind, or whoever would come next in the kennel’s, and to manipulate them. His most dangerous weapon is not his bow, his dagger or his flaying skills, but his brain. He is smarter than them all, and the worst threat they have ever faced, and they would realize it soon enough —but too late for them to do anything about it. He is Ramsay Bolton.

 

“You are not happy.” The sentence cuts through the silence, enigmatic, indifferent, impossible to understand. He knits his brows together, and answers as if it is the most obvious thing in the world —and it probably is.

“I’m in a cell, having a conversation with an ugly, boring wench. What did you expect, that I would cry out in delight and thank all the Gods, the old and the new ones, for letting me have such a pleasure?”

“It was not what I meant. You are not happy, and have never been.”

He raises his brow again.

“And what would _you_ know about that? If you really wish to get to know me, why not ask your dear little sister? She’d tell you I seemed pretty happy when I was fucking her mangled little cunt, making her wet with blood and come, and tearing her up from the inside out.”

“Rubbish. If you had been happy, you would never have done all of this, seeing other people suffering would have made you wallow, or, at least, annoyed. Only a miserable, unsatisfied man would find pleasure in watching other people pained and agonizing.”

“Are you here to get some sort of revenge, or to analyze me incorrectly? Or is this your way of avenging your whore of a sister, trying to infuriate me by spouting nonsense?”

“I am here to know what kind of madman would do what you have done to my baby brother, and get hard from staring at him aching, begging and screaming.”

His features harshen, his facial expression somewhere between annoyed, bored and vexed.

“Is it him who told you seeing his bleak face was making me hard? Does that little slut mistakes his wildest dreams for reality? No… He would not have told you this, wouldn’t have told you anything. I’ve shaped him too perfectly for this… So, I’m guessing that you saying this must only be a way to try and insult me again. But I’ve never been aroused by the sight of one of my pets, sorry to disappoint you. What I like is merely to know you are all suffering, going through tortures you could never even have imagined, not in your worst nightmares, because of me. Watching people suffer from someone else’s hands would be boring. Others merely cannot compete.” His amused tone subsides, only to be replaced by a haughty one. “I do not like pain, much less miserable pets suffering, bleeding and begging. What I enjoy is simply being superior to you all, who so absolutely lack the imagination, the skill and the guts to do even half of what I have accomplished.”

 

“Ridiculous.” She seems so convinced of her interpretation it would make him snicker if it didn’t cause his blood to boil. “Destroying takes no skill at all. The truth is that you cannot create anything, because you lack the talent. You are nothing more than a wretched coward who takes pride in breaking people, because he is too afraid of trying to build anything with his own two hands, and of letting the whole world discover that he is simply not good enough to be useful in any way.”

“So what you’re saying is that crushing people and objects is nothing in comparison to making anything?” He laughs openly, the cruelest, scariest laugh that could ever exist. “But I created him! I destroyed your perverted murderer of a brother, and, in his place, I built an obedient, submissive, useful pet.” He thinks he hears her breath catching up in her throat, yet she shows no sign of it, only watching him with a cold, harsh glare. “Of course, of course, anyone could have shattered your brother, maybe even crushed him. It would not have been that complicated, considering how frail he already was. But turning him into my Reek? I am the only one talented enough to do something like that. You couldn’t have, no one could have. I am the only one he obeys to, the only one he is loyal too, the only one he loves, because I made him like this —and nobody else would have been able to. And that’s also why he will never go back to his despicable, depraved past self, never be anyone else but my Reek, not without dying and becoming nothing at all: because there is not a single person in the world as skilled as me, who could erase my creation and fabricate something new out of its remnants. Let me give you a piece of advice, in case you would be so desperate as to try to undo my doings, for whatever forsaken reason: you won’t be able to do so. Demolishing him, probably. But reconstructing him afterward? You will _never_ be able to. Not without my help. And I won’t give it. Because I may be the only one here clever enough to understand how much of a masterpiece I’ve turned him into, but it doesn’t matter: I would never, ever destroy a creation which turned out so perfect.”

Another faint gasp. She is either better at controlling her facial expressions than he thought, or worse at keeping her emotions at bay. Or both, probably.

“You are even more crazed than I had imagined. Though I believe such madness would be necessary in order to sleep at night after having committed horrors such as the ones you enjoyed effectuating so thoroughly.”

“I am a genius, and the likes of you could never begin to understand.”

“I think I understand you fairly well, actually. You are the insane bastard of a man who never wanted you to exist, and you lack self-confidence.”

He would laugh openly, were he not as wrathful.

“Or wait, actually, maybe self-confidence is not the right term. It is not that you don’t have faith in your abilities —it is that you know extremely well your own limits, and how utterly worthless you are. You know how to hold a bow, how to torture people, how to flay them, how to play mind games with them, how to push them to their limits. And? Save for a few, extremely limited number of situations —where someone less skilled than you in these fields would do just fine— your so-called talents are completely useless. And you don’t have any others, do you? You can’t do anything save from causing pain… You don’t know how to rule, how to fight on your own, how to be a decent human being, how to be liked —even how to love properly, am I wrong?”

“Y-“

“No, don’t answer. I don't need you to. Whether you’ll admit it or not, I have understood as much. It’s obvious enough from the way you behave. And you are ashamed of it, of being so vulnerable, and so valueless. Of knowing that you are a disappointment to your father, to your mother, to the whole damn world. A mere bastard, so replaceable, so forgettable. But you don’t want people to know, to realize how weak you are, how worthless. So you do all of these awful things, in hopes people will be so scared of you they will start thinking of you as strong and powerful, when really, you aren’t, and there is no properly trained man or woman on this Earth who could not defeat you in a fair duel. And to feel superior: because even a lowly being such as you is worth more than the obedient slave you have turned my brother into, or at least that is what you think. And maybe, along the way, you have grown to enjoy the taste of blood —or perhaps it was always there, and it was this thirst which gave you those wicked ideas of yours. Whichever it is does not matter, because it doesn’t change the fact that you are completely mad. I have said before that you were not happy, and throughout our conversation, I have only further realized how true it was. But it is no excuse for your acts, no justification, not even an explanation. For even if you had been through the worst pains that could possibly exist, even worse than any ordeal you could think of, it would not legitimize taking it out on people who must not have been completely innocent, but who had definitely not deserved the treatments you forced them to undergo. Yes, you are not happy, have never been and never will be. And I hope it will get worse from now on. Because you deserved it, Ramsay Snow.”

And during her whole tirade, his face is but a mix of unbridled, flaming wrath, and sheer disbelief —and it remains this way even after she stopped, for a few seconds, letting her enough time to turn around and take a few steps towards the exit. He has no words for this, no idea of a punishment befitting of this crime coming to his mind. But the shock finally subsides, only to be replaced by more anger, if it was even possible at this point to be any more furious without exploding. And, though there are no words to describe her and what she just has done —he still tries.

“YOU FILTHY FUCKING WHORE, GET BACK THERE IMMEDIATELY, I WILL HAVE YOU FLAYED AND WILL LET MEN COME INTO EACH NEW HOLE I’LL HAVE PIERCED IN YOUR DISGUSTING, FAT BODY, I’LL CUT OFF ONE BY ONE ALL OF YOUR FINGERS AND TOES THEN CHOP OFF YOUR HANDS AND FEET, YOU THINK YOU CAN RUN AWAY FROM ME SO EASILY BUT YOU WON’T, I’LL GET OUT OF HERE IN NO TIME AND YOU’LL SEE, I’LL SHOW YOU WHO’S THE WEAK, WORTHLESS SLUT HERE, YOU WILL CRY AND BEG ME TO STOP BEFORE I HAVE EVEN STARTED, I’LL TIE YOU UP TO A CROSS, RIP YOUR STOMACH OPEN AND LET WILD ANIMALS DEVOUR YOUR ENTRAILS, BUT NO, NO, THIS WOULD BE TOO NICE, I’LL BE CROWNED KING OF THE NORTH AND OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS AND I WILL MAKE YOU BECOME A WHORE AND FORCE EVERY MAN AND ANIMAL IN THE SEVEN KINGDOMS TO RAPE YOU, YOU WILL EAT AND DRINK NOTHING BUT COME AND PISS AND YOUR OWN SKIN FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, YOU WILL CURSE YOUR LOWLY FATHER AND WENCH OF A MOTHER FOR BRINGING YOU TO LIFE, REGRET THE DAY YOU WERE BORN AND EVERY SINGLE ACTION YOU’VE EVER DONE WHICH BROUGHT YOU TO THIS MOMENT, I’LL TORTURE AND MURDER EVERYONE YOU HAVE EVER CARED ABOUT FOR A SINGLE INSTANT OF YOUR ROTTEN EXISTENCE IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES, AND I’LL CUT OFF YOUR EYELIDS SO YOU WILL NOT EVEN BE ABLE TO STOP WATCHING FOR EVEN A QUARTER OF SECOND, I’LL HAVE YOU SUCK THE COCK OF EVERY PIG IN THE WHOLE WORLD TO REMIND YOU OF WHAT YOU TRULY ARE, AND-”

 

And his endless stream of curses and promises turns into nothing but incoherent screaming. All of this useless, of course, considering she has long since gone away, still not far enough to be able to be deaf to his roaring which can probably be heard through the Seven Kingdoms and even farther away, probably pestering the Night King beyond the Wall, but definitely not caring about the empty threats and insults thrown at her. If anything, it only means she won: forcing the master of destruction to drop the mask, show his true self and his complexes and further prove her point. She has shattered the pride of devastation itself. Not bad, for a filthy fucking whore.

 

 

 

Yet, unbeknownst to Ramsay, someone still hears, _and_ cares. Reek is right outside the room, curled up in a broken, pitiful, tattered ball against the wall, just next to the door, listening since the beginning to everything that has been said, and sometimes unable to hold back his reactions, so much that he has had to bite on his mangled hand to suppress the noises he produced. Master can’t know he is there, he would punish him for escaping, so, so harshly, disloyal pets, bad pets have to be punished, and Reek knew this so well, so how could he? And how could he want to run away from Master, Master who praised him so much even though he had no idea he was there, Master who called him useful and a masterpiece and perfect, Master who loves Reek, who is the only one who loves Reek, and who Reek loves- no. No, no, he is not Reek, he is Theon, Theon, Theon, and not a pet, and not Ra- —he flinches at the name, even in his own thoughts— and not the monster’s obedient servant or animal, and he can’t hurt him, he is all chained up and restrained, but is he really, isn’t he stronger than chains, isn’t his unprecedented fury fierce enough to break any bond of steel, no matter how thick? He wants to peek inside the room, to verify that Mast-the monster is unable to move, is really not dangerous like Yara and Sansa promised him he would be, but what if he saw him? And what if he wasn’t, what if he had freed himself, and that he noticed he was there? He would never be able to escape again, never have an opportunity to, and the monster would never ever forgive him, he would put him through so much pain, so much pain, so much horror, so much misery again. He should run, he is the one who wanted to confront the monster but couldn’t so he got his own sister involved, such a pathetic, shameless wreck that he is, who wanted to get closure but was nowhere near in the right condition to, who wanted a revenge but at the same time— Reek must go and free Master ! And then Master will love him, and it does not matter if Master punishes Reek, because Reek deserved it, Reek has been a bad pet and it is normal for Master to make sure he never does it again, never leaves his side again, always remain with him, forever and ever and— stop, stop, stop! No! No, no, he has to run away, who knows what could happen if he stays, he may lose control, may free the monster, and then he will run away with him and be tormented every day, every hour, every second again and he can still taste Master, wait, no, the monster’s semen on the tip of his tongue and the wounds on his back and everywhere still ache and burn and he can still feel the impossible emptiness of his stomach and he still has barely any fingers left and, he still has no cock, and he is still Reek!

No, no, no. He can’t still be Reek. He can’t remain that way. He wants to get his body back, his normal body, his body unbroken, unwounded, untouched without consent, unsoiled, unviolated, and he wants his dignity back too, and his pride, he wants to revert back to his past self, but he can’t even remember how he looked back then, when he was not this trembling, scarred mess, when he was admired and desired by women, he can’t remember how it felt like to be a man, to be his own master, to be whole, he can’t remember anything he used to be, he has barely been convinced by everyone’s speeches and words that he has been someone else at some point— but what if they are lying? What if he has never been anything but Reek, but Master’s, what if they are only trying to lead him astray, to separate him from Master? - But no, no, even Master, even not Master, even this man who is not even one has said it, has confirmed it, we existed before, and Yara was even our sister too back then - but was Reek better before, really? Master has said it, he said that before, Reek was a murderer, and Reek know it’s true, it’s true, it’s the only thing Reek remembers from the past, the guilt, and Master said that Reek was also perverted and depressed and Reek believes it, because Master would not lie, would never lie, Master is perfect unlike Reek, and if Master says so then it’s true, and Reek needed to pay for it, and he did thanks to Master, and Master fixed him, and turned him into Reek, _his_ Reek, his Reek that he loves, that he cares about, because why would he have fixed him if he did not care? — But no, no, no, no, he didn’t fix him, he just made him into a little, submissive toy that he could crush easily because that’s what he loves, crushing people, he does not love Reek, and definitely not Theon, he only loves seeing their pain and agony, and he is a bad person and not even a person, and he did not make him better, he only made him obedient and broken, he made him Reek, but that’s not who he truly is, because who he truly is is, is, is Theon. Theon, Theon, Theon, and no one else. And definitely not Reek.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm mostly not confident about the sentence "And what would you know about that? If you really wish to get to know me, why not ask your dear little sister? She’d tell you I seemed pretty happy when I was fucking her mangled little cunt, making her wet with blood and come, and tearing her up from the inside out.”  
> I mean... I wrote it because I believe that Ramsay would try to hurt Yara, by kicking her hard where it hurts, I don't even really think he would truly have done this... Then again, I wonder if Ramsay would really say something like that? It's, like... Gay. Very gay xD. In the worst possible way, but still... I need help. With this sentence. And in general.  
> Also, I may have put too much blank lines... I'm so bad with editing ^^'


	2. When monsters cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, I focused all of my attention on this chapter and I cannot even believe how fast I finished it... I was pretty pumped up yesterday and today, I guess ! (Also I took a few hours from my sleep time and work time to write it... The things I do for love. Or for having an excuse not to learn my lessons properly. Heh.)  
> But considering I'm... Extremely tired, but that I wanted to post this chapter anyway, I only proofread the last part of this chapter once, and not twice or thrice as I usually do... So if there are any mistakes, or that some sentences sound weird, that may be an explanation. Don't hesitate to let me know, too... Also, please don't skip paragraphs to read the dialogue before and then come back to read the paragraph. It's a bad habit I have and I know I'm not the only one and sometimes it's okay but sometimes it just ruins everything, and I hate it and myself when that kind of things happen to me, so I'm warning you so you won't have to feel this way. Anyway, I hope you will like it :)

 

 

It takes hours for Ramsay to calm down, literal hours —during which Theon and Reek do nothing but to fight for control, Reek having grown stronger now that Master is close again, thankfully not as strong as back when their roles were reversed and that the monster was unleashed, but still too painfully powerful—. And even after all this time, it is certain that Ramsay is not truly calmed down, that his throat is only too sore to allow him to keep going —and it must hurt, it must hurt, Reek has to give him some water to soothe the ache, no, no he will not, Theon won’t let him—. Still, as if on cue, Sansa chooses this moment to arrive. She is followed by a guard, and stops for an instant to spare a glance at the barely human sorry mess huddled next to the door.

“If you want to see Ramsay paying for his crimes with your own eyes, follow me. If you are not sound enough, stay here.” She whispers icily, in stark contrast to the blazing ire dancing in her eyes, before stepping into the damp, cold prison.

Theon hesitates, unsure of being able to control Reek if he does just that. He looks at the guard, who is staying outside, probably on Lady Sansa’s order, as if seeking an answer, then makes his decision, takes off his thick coat, he has been through colder times with less clothing on, and ties one sleeve to the doorknob and the other to his left wrist, making sure he will not be able to rush to the monster —especially not to unleash it—, that he’ll have time to stop himself from doing so. And then, he enters the room, as discreetly and quietly as it is possible, hoping that the monster won’t notice him, or rather, that he will notice him but not say anything to taunt him, not move, not flash him a frightening smile while staring at him with his piercing eyes, not be a danger and most of all, not turn him into Reek again. But even if his desires are not satisfied —and he knows they won’t, they never are and he always wishes for too much, one more drop of filthy water, one less whip slash, one less finger cut off, please, no, no, no, it is not too much to ask, it is normal, he did not deserve it, he did not deserve it, he is not Reek—, even if his desires are not satisfied, it will still be alright, because he has seen worse, way, way worse, because he knows he can survive it, because it could be worse, it can always be worse. Still, he hopes. And when he enters the somber prison, and that the monster is too focused on Sansa to even discern his shape advancing in the darkness, not even seeing the movement —he is grateful to Master to have turned him into nothing but a mere shadow, to have unknowingly trained him to shrink, to make himself tinier, to shrivel him in every way possible —in desperate hopes he would turn invisible or even disappear—, to have made him this small, scrawny, haggard, unable to raise his head and unnoticeable creature. To have shaped him into this being, so close from nothing at all he cannot even be seen without being searched for. In other terms, into someone whom nobody would be able to distinguish —except for Master himself. But thankfully, this time, it proves useful considering even the monster itself doesn’t expect him to be there, lurking in the shadows that feel like a second home, and thus —is oblivious to his presence. After all, he has other matters to think about.

 

When Sansa enters the room, Ramsay’s still loathsome and furious expression, even after all of these hours, immediately turns into one of sick, twisted glee.

“Why hello there, my pretty wife. Were you missing me? Is this why you asked your bastard of a half-brother not to kill me? Tell me, did you plead all of the Lords in charge to let me live, because you so desperately ached for my cock to fill you again, because no one else could make you feel as whole?”  
Without losing her composure, neither growing flustered and blushing nor looking away, she lets out a half-snicker, as amused as it is despiteful.  
“Fill me? With such a limp cock, which could barely stiffen even with the help of oils and ointments? No, Ramsay, I will not miss your brutish, bestial, pitiful way of raping me. And for your information, I _pleaded_ to no one, because I am in charge here.”  
“Your side is even more desperate than I thought if they truly chose a damsel in distress to be one of their leaders.” He mocks without laughing, too exhausted and mad to do so, but not without spitting a lie, adding insult to what he hopes has left an injury. “And it is not my fault if you have always been too hideous and boring to arouse me.”

They are both seething silently, each too prideful to admit it to the other, and able to keep their anger hidden under the same mask of cold indifference, save for their eyes —their eyes which just burn in wrath and fury, their almost identical glare piercing the other and seeing right through them: they are equal in mind. But not in position.

“You will discover, Ramsay, that I am not a damsel in distress anymore, far from it. And, as you’ll find out all about it, I want you to keep one thing in mind: you are one of those who made me like this. Not the first to have shaped me, not the last, and definitely not the most significant, the one who transfigured me the most. But enough for it to be entirely your fault if I show you what true pain is. Do not forget, never forget, that everything which shall happen to you today and from now on is well-deserved, a small payback for all that you have done. I wish you could endure as much suffering as you have caused, but it is not even possible, for you, or at least the lesser man that you are, would die way before you had known such pain. And there would be no point in torturing a corpse, or a nobody who would no longer be Ramsay Snow.”

“Bolton.” He corrects, cheeks flushed and teeth gritted with ire as he speaks through them.  
“Perhaps, really. Even the name given to bastards is too good for you. There are glorious bastards, after all. The name of your vile father might be more appropriate for a beastly maggot such as you.”  
He flinches, then roars an empty forbiddance. “Do not even dare to insult me or my father!”  
“Why? He cannot be offended by it, now that you have put him to an undeservedly peaceful rest. Nor can he save you, just like he could not help you win the battle. Not that you would have vanquished me anyway, but maybe you would have had enough time to flee. It seems you have dug your own grave when you forced him into one, _Bolton_.”  
And the name is uttered with such a despiteful, and yet still freezing tone, that it feels even more insulting than Snow or bastard. If a gaze could kill, his in this very instant would have destroyed the entire North. His rage, reminiscent of a volcano erupting, is so uncontrolled it causes him to take longer to find a suitable retort than he usually would, and even then…  
“It’s because of that fucking cunt Jon Snow, isn’t it? That you suddenly say that I’m lower than a bastard? But I’m not, you-”  
Even then, his sentence is cut short when Sansa brandishes a sword which was previously attached to the external part of her thigh, seemingly heavier than he believed she could carry.

“This sword…” She begins, trailing her thumb across the sharp edge, without gashing it —the blade must be at least a little smooth, and indeed it looks slightly weathered and dented, dulled by time and the many blows it has to have received. “Should have become Rickon’s. Not his actual one, of course, but the one he would have trained with. He was just about to begin practicing with it…”  
Ramsay snickers. “It would have been a better idea to train him to zigzag while trying to escape from an archer. Though I guess it wouldn’t have changed much anyway…”

She does not even flinch. He expected her to burst in tears, to curse him and his entire family —not that he has much left—, or at _least_ to grit her teeth, but no. Nothing. Either she did not care about her youngest brother, either she is already too furious to be affected by his heinous taunts, either she excels at hiding her madness even more than he had imagined. Or… Perhaps her heart has been too scorched for it to pain her any more. The thought, though it is unpleasant given he wants her to suffer to an even greater extent, causes him to grin. He knows he has played a great part in her demise. And it does not matter if her pitiful soul and body are already overflowed by anguish, he will find a way to annihilate her more. He is Ramsay Bolton, after all, not some talentless nobody. He will torment her further. Even if he ends up killed, and that she believes, for a fleeting second, as she sees his head fall to the ground and roll away from his body, that she is safe —he will still torture her from beyond the grave. She will never feel happy, at peace or secured ever again, whether she ends his life or not. She can make his body and soul disappear —but she will never erase the memories, the cuts he has left on her heart, mind, and insides. She belongs to him, and it’s a fact that she will not forget, no matter how much she wants to.  
“So, what?” He asks, when she doesn’t answer his previous jibes. “You’ll try to behead me with it? You would not be able to kill me with a keen blade, let alone with a training sword intended for children, my poor, frail little wife!”

Ignoring his provocations, she continues telling the sword’s story.  
“It used to belong to my oldest brother, before. I believe that Theon must even have borrowed it a few times, though he has always been more versed in archery. Not unlike you, I guess.”  
For a split second, he thinks he sees some movement out of the corner of his eye, but his vexation is so unbridled he forgets about it before he even has the chance to register what it was, his entire attention focused on Sansa’s words.  
“Don’t you dare compare me to this spoiled, cowardly brat! Don’t even speak his name in my presence!”

Once again, she hardly seems to hear it. He, on the other hand, tries to fight off the bitter taste that invaded his mouth when he heard the name he has tried so hard to erase. The name with which this whore conquered Reek and eloped with him. That damn name, without which he would still hold Winterfell, still have her warming his bed —with her blood— and his Reek next to it, watching her undone and shaking from the pain and welts he had inflicted. Knowing it was nothing compared to what she would suffer the next day, and then the next, and all of those afterward, that it could only worsen. Reek was living proof —although just barely— of it. He relishes the idea of abusing his pet and his wife again, even if it is only in his mind.

“Do you remember how Robb Stark died?” She asks, forcefully tearing him off his reverie, but does not let him enough time to answer. “It is your father who ended his life. I would have liked to avenge my brother, but you took this pleasure away from me. So, I guess I will have to double your punishment. Fear not, of course, or fear more, actually: I am not in any shortage of ideas about how I shall accomplish this feat.”  
“You? Torturing _me_?” Ramsay’s laugh is anything but forced. The grotesque thought earnestly amuses him. “My poor, poor, foolish wife… You wouldn’t even know where to begin with.”  
“Oh, but I think I know it very well. But we’ll see: you are the most experimented at this, after all, and I am but a neophyte. So how about we play one of these games you adore? If I can make you scream in less than five minutes, you will have to admit that you are but a wretched, vicious, egocentric madman who thinks he is superior to everyone when, really, he is nothing but a talentless bastard loved by no one, who needs to torture people in order to earn some vague semblance of respect. Of course, you can also admit it right now, in which case I will spare you from three-quarters of the tribulations I intend to put you through.”  
He scowls, irked by the sentence but nonetheless certain of his victory. The closest thing from a scream she could ever elicit from him would be grunts of pleasure as he’d fuck her raw and dry. Of course, she does not intend to let him off the hook so easily, and she would never have made this offer had she had even one doubt that he would refuse. But she wants him to regret rejecting such a favoring option, to remember when she will be tormenting him that _it would have been so simple for him to avoid it_.

“I will never say this. Go ahead and try to break me, you won’t even see a single crack appear.”  
She chuckles half-heartedly in quite a dark manner, and he cannot fully grasp why.  
“But, first, tell me. What will I gain when I’ll have won?”  
“If you miraculously do, I shall stop torturing you and grant you a quick, merciful death.”  
He raises an eyebrow, his traits distorted by a displeased frown.

“If your pathetic little ministrations and attempts at putting me through an ordeal cannot even bring me to scream, why would I so desperately need them to stop?”  
“Because, as I said, I have quite a lot of ways of hurting you in mind. Of course, I would prefer to see you already beginning to shatter while undergoing the first, and least painful part of my plans… But I have imagined many other retributions, each more unbearable than the previous one.”  
“I don’t believe you. If I win, I want you to let me go.” As he pronounces these words, he does not even think —and it is only when Sansa gives him half a smile that he remembers, and loathes himself for having said this, as a sense of dread overcomes his heart. He can’t be like this. No, no, no. Impossible… He can’t have said the same thing as one of his _victims_.

“If you think this has a happy ending, you haven’t been paying attention.”  
Here it comes, and oh, how much he _hates_ her in this very instant. With as much strength as he can possibly muster —not much, considering he spent the last three hours screaming himself hoarse—, he tugs on the restraints binding him, desperately trying to break free though it only results in swelling his wrists, already bruised by the constricting, skintight manacles. Only imagining her bloody and crying, regretting to have ever met him or heard his name is not enough anymore, he wants to make her suffer, suffer, suffer, right in front of his eyes!

“I would cease wasting my energy if I were you. You are going to need it. Though, considering I am not you, thank the Gods for this, I can only advise you to continue these useless attempts.” She lightly taps the tip of the sword against her shoe’s toe cap, watching him squirm futilely, before growing bored of the ridiculous sight. “So, will you play my game or give up right now?”  
“Bring on your stupid game, so you can only further prove that you’ll never beat me at anything!”  
“Pretty ironic, to say this to the woman who has just won a battle —and a war— against you, don’t you believe?”  
“Won? You were not the one fighting!”  
She smirks. “Amongst the many things the monsters of this world have taught me, you included, figures this one: there are many ways of fighting. And ‘on a battleground’ may very well be the easiest one. Though, not for everybody it seems, considering how effortlessly my half-brother has defeated you.”  
He glares at her, his mind too clouded by rage and exhaustion to find a way to deny the truth.  
“But, well… I guess you know that better than I do, and I don’t feel like buying you any more time before your certain doom. So…”

She turns around, and stares fixedly at the darkness, as if waiting for something. Ramsay feels like he can catch a small, sheepish movement —and the smell of terror. _Could it be…_ Interrupting his trail of thought, Sansa whispers ungently.  
“Five minutes is three hundred seconds. Would you count loud and clear, for him not to be able to say I’ve cheated, or can you not ?”  
A silence. And then, a nervous mutter let out by a broken voice he immediately recognizes, and which sends a jolt of rage and —he can barely admit it— of fear through his entire body, causing it to convulse more than any poison could.  
“I’ll… Count.”  
Reek. Reek is here, and has not done anything to free him, to help his Master escape. For a second, worry actually creeps up his spine —could his best creation truly have been changed? No, no, it can’t be. It’ll never be true.

“Reek.” He calls out, his tone kinder than it has ever been in the past hours —no, days: he has not needed this sugary inflection in quite a long time, perhaps ever since he has lost his loyal pet. Immediately, a gasp, and then this familiar voice he has spent so much time perfecting cries out the usual title.  
“M-Master!”  
And yes, it is there, he is here, his Reek has not left —he is still right where Ramsay left him, lurking in what used to be this annoying Lord’s heart and body, but which are now used as a vessel for a much more interesting creature. So maybe Ramsay had been mistaken, had not yet entirely killed the Prince of Pyke: then be it, it doesn’t matter, he’ll have plenty of other occasions to do so, to make sure even the last shred of this ridiculous Lord Greyjoy has been reduced to dishonored ashes. Sansa feels like she might barf, were it not so un-ladylike, and if both grotesque nicknames did not carry with them so many dark memories, better left forgotten —but no, she will not merely forget them, she is no longer a naive young maiden unable to fight back against her abusers, she will tear them into pieces and then bury them, along with the bastardly scum that dared to call itself her husband.

“Reek…” Ramsay continues, his tone as syrupy, almost sickeningly sweet as can be. “What are you waiting for to free me? You should know I do not much like to wait… Or are you doing this on purpose, are you trying to disobey me? Do you want to disobey me? Do you want to be punished? Don’t you love me, Reek?”  
His tone is sultry, almost loving, yet also voluntarily distressed, and he knows he has won —that’s it, this is the end, there’s nothing holding him back anymore: these foolish wolves committed a fatal mistake by underestimating him and letting his servant roam free.  
“N-no, Master, of course I do, I love you, I’ll do it, I’ll!” He yelps, and rushes towards him —Ramsay can discern it, can hear the rustle of clothes—, but then, a tug. Training his eyes on the dark form shrouded in shadows, he barely sees —is his Reek bound to the door? Anyway, he seems to try to escape, scrambling with whatever is restraining him, and-  
“Enough.” Sansa’s voice thunders, echoing in the entire room, and Ramsay is almost startled. He had forgotten she even existed. “Theon, stop behaving like an imbecile, you do not even possess the keys.”  
A tiny whimper escapes his pet’s throat, and he stops trying to untie his bindings.  
“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, his voice hoarse and low again, and Ramsay wonders whether the apology is directed towards him or —he can barely consider it— Sansa.

“Will you count, or should I summon my guard to take your place?”  
“No, I… I’ll stay. I want to stay. Please, I… I won’t heed his biddings again.”  
“Good.” With this, she plucks the key from her cleavage, unlocks the cell, and seals it shut again as soon as she has entered it, hiding the item away once again. “Then…”  
Three hits from the sword on the ground, before she holds it up, right to Ramsay’s waist, and the beast silently curses. If he could only snatch the weapon from Sansa’s hands, he’d use it to knock her out —it doesn’t seem sharp enough to be used to slice throats—, and it would take some effort, but he would manage to get the key from her… But he can’t move an inch, with his back to the wall and not even one chainring between his manacles and the hard stone surface to allow him the freedom of being able to budge more than his fingers or the tip of his toes.

“Let the game begin.”

Without wasting a second, Reek begins to recite numbers, so quickly Ramsay knows he is on his side —at least partially. But Sansa, so sure about her victory it unsettles him-no, it is not nervousness, it’s slight annoyance, of course— Sansa does not even stop him from going at this rapid pace, and instead, yanks down Ramsay’s breeches and undergarments in one swift motion. He successfully holds back a yelp, but can’t help but to flinch, baffled by the sudden development. What? Is she not even embarrassed about her gesture? No, she probably isn’t, this part of his body is certainly the one she is the most familiar with, and the prudish maiden he married has been long since gone, murdered by his own hands, or so he likes to believe.

Suddenly, as she approaches her sword from his body, understanding dawns on him. No, she wouldn’t- she can’t- she wouldn’t dare! Careful not to make any sound that could have been perceived as a scream, he squirms around, despite knowing how useless it is, how little he can move, that he has no way to recoil or escape. He is trapped.

Theon begins to shudder, and brings his right hand in front of his eye to shield himself from the sight forcing him to relive one of his worst memories, but he cannot bring the left hand, still bound to the door, and is unable to close his eyes either. He tries to focus on counting, on anything else but the traumatic pictures dancing in his mind.

“Don’t even dare!” Ramsay spits out, his voice a mix of fury and pure dread. “I swear to the Gods if you chop it off I will-”  
But his sentence trails off and turns into a look of sheer bafflement when he notices that Sansa does not seem to aim for his manhood —or is she? Maybe she only has trouble wielding the sword… Then again, it looks lighter than a normal one. And… She certainly does not seem to be struggling.

“Oh, my _dear_ husband… Perhaps I will, one day. But not yet.” Before Ramsay can even proceed what she means —it’s too late: she has already plunged the sword deep inside of him, both the steel and her ire too unyielding to be halted for more than a few seconds by his body’s feeble and only defense. A gasp escapes his lips, and then —a prolonged, deafening, high-pitched screech that doesn’t seem it could emanate from a human being, perhaps from a dying monster. It has barely ended that another, shorter but just as inhuman, shakes his entire body, and then another, another, another —not any longer than gasps now, but each time louder, more distressed, more unbearable to even hear at all, a seemingly endless stream of what could only be defined as the very sound of pain itself: and, trying to rise above the cacophony, a broken voice, crying out numbers that can barely be heard in the most strangled and pathetic cries that could possibly exist, seeming to answer the beast’s aching howls of agony. For a second, master and pet’s voices seem to fuse in an unique, destroyed one, as one of them lets out uncontrolled screams while the other does everything he can to raise his higher, to go against months of restraining and doing the exact opposite, to yell with vocal cords that had not voluntarily produced anything above frightened murmurs for an eternity of pain, wounded by hours of tortured cries, not unlike his former master’s in this very moment. And, when the demon’s shrieks die down, what is neither fully Theon nor Reek is thankful for it, unable to keep shouting much longer. Ramsay, his cords torn apart, slowly comes back to his senses while his body starts emitting gasps, moans and spasms, that only make the ordeal worse, in an erratic, unpredictable fashion. Never in his life had he known such pain, soreness, suffering, such a wild fire ravaging his insides and bringing stinging tears to his eyes, an injury this hurtful, this unbearable, this awful, this, this… He chokes on a sob, crying and moaning pitifully like a baby ripped apart alive by sharp-fanged hounds. It takes time for him to understand what has just happened, his mind too overcome by signals of distress to register where they were coming from at all. He slowly, unbelievingly drops his gaze to the lower part of his body —and immediately, the shock combines with the soaring ache to make his stomach twist, and he pukes, expelling whatever was in his digestive system. Sansa barely avoids getting her sleeve soiled, and her face twists in a mix of disgust and satisfaction. But Ramsay, shaking, quivering Ramsay does not even see her, barely registers the putrid taste and stench, the sickening texture of what just rolled on his tongue and is now sullying his clothes along with the ground, even the gastric acid threatening to dissolve his mouth —he can only focus on the nightmare between his legs, and… And just a tad higher. The insides of his thighs are red and bloodstained, offering a desolated sight, while Sansa’s sword is… Is… No, it can’t be, she simply cannot have done this. And yet, here is her weapon, past the torn, formerly tight ring of muscle which gave in during the short-lived battle against the fury of the wolf girl, lodged deep in his rear and overfilling his outstretched insides. He almost vomits again, but has neither food or bile left to give back. His chest heaves in strangled sobs, and he feels like calling for help, for someone to make him feel better, to reassure him, to tell him it will be alright, to heal his wound and make the soreness go away…

“Reek…” He whimpers in a desperate plea, in lack of anyone better suited for the task —but no one answers. Maybe his murmur was too broken, too quiet to be heard —or perhaps Reek had simply been overpowered by Theon. He cannot tell, and it only frightens him further. He does not even hold himself back from crying his heart out like an infant child, unable to even think about his dignity in front of so much pain. And even when he would, it’d only add shame to suffering, and he would only break down again, realizing exactly how dishonored he had been. He did not believe this place could ache that much, had not even thought about it once, but now, the burning is so intense, so impossibly scalding, his flesh has been torn apart, ripped open in the most excruciatingly painful way possible, and yet even the blood does not ease or soothe anything, it is still a blazing inferno and he starts to believe even flaying is not that awful, he just sobs.

Suddenly, the mumbles he cannot seem to comprehend, the mutters his scrambled mind categorized as background noise come to a halt.  
“… Th-three hundred.”

 _It hurts._ Right then, Sansa’s voice, resolute and harsh enough to shake him out of his trance. _It still hurts._  
“Perfect.” She stares at Ramsay with indifference, her delicate hand still clamped tightly on the sword handle. _It bloody hurts._ “Did you hear that, Ramsay? Alas, it seems you have lost the game. How… Predictable. Though, I should not complain about your weakness and your foolish arrogance… It only means that you will truly get what you deserve.”

 _It hurts._ Her green eyes shine with cold hatred. _It hurts hurts hurts hurts hurts._ She knows victory is hers —a complete, thorough victory, one where she would crush her opponent entirely, leaving nothing but a thin layer of dust where her abuser stands. Ramsay is already crumbling, wobbling on unsteady legs, would fall to the ground were it not for his restraints keeping him up. _Hurts._ She has always been slightly taller than him, but in this very moment, it feels like she is even more immense, towering over him like a gracious but deadly creature. _It will never stop hurting, will haunt him for the rest of his life, not that his life will be very long anyway, but it would still hurt after an eternity._ She gazes at him condescendingly in silence, her thin, pale lips pursed as she seems to wait for something. When it does not come, she finally opens her mouth.  
“I believe we had an agreement.”  
His mind is hazy, clouded by suffering, and it takes a while for it to form words with the noises it registers, let alone to comprehend their meaning.

“You lost, Ramsay. Now admit your defeat. Admit what you are.”  
“Nev…” He doesn't even have the occasion to finish before he is cut off by a new hit, as quick as it is painful, which causes a moan to escape his lips, his throat too sore to keep on screaming. He sniffs, and trembles, more fat tears rolling on his wet cheeks, leaving a noticeable clean trail on his still slightly bloodstained cheekbones. His ruined pride falls into ashes. “Alright, just s-stop it! Stop…”  
“Then admit it.”

But no matter how much he tries to focus on what she said before, the only word he can recall vividly is _bastard_.  
“I-I… I can’t remember the, the words…”  
A grim smile spreads onto her hardened face. For a second, it occurs to him that the child he hurt has turned into a real woman —mature, beautiful, _deadly_.  
“Oh… Now that’s a shame. Perhaps you ought to have listened more carefully when I was explaining the rules to you. Or maybe it is that you only pretend to have forgotten, so that you will not have to say it? Are you lying to me? Lying to your own wife?”  
Caught up in the twisted game she put in place to mimic his owns as best as she can, he fails to notice the slight faltering of her voice when it forms the last word.  
“N… No.” He whispers, his eyes so wide they seem about to burst from their sockets, and fear seeps into his heart. The uncertainty is killing him, as he finally realizes that this time, he will not be saved. _That there is nothing that could stop her._ Nothing he can do to escape his doom, but beg and hope she will have mercy. He lost the game.

But she won’t have mercy, will she? He certainly never had any… If anything, watching his victims come undone, scream and plead only made him crave for more. Why would she be any different? He did not spare her when she asked him to between two screams or strangled sobs, so why would she be any kinder? And when she remained stoic, when she thought, perhaps, that he would stop if she did not give him the pleasure of hearing her shattering, he pounded harder and harder until he finally broke her, until she began crying and howling again. No matter what she tried, it never worked. If anything, it was even more amusing to watch her racking her brain as she searched for a way to end these torments, when he knew that she would not find any because none existed. That’s right —none existed. And thus… None existed now either. Whether he would beg or try to seem unbothered by it all would not make any difference —or maybe it would: he could choose between protecting his already destroyed pride, or attempt to focus on something other than the pain by ripping further his own vocal cords. Not much of a choice —and she had meant it to be that way. Because he had done the same.  
_All of this was his own fault._

She appears to savor the look of true horror on his face as he realizes it, before speaking.  
“Really? I don’t think I can believe you. What a pity, truly… But I guess that’s just the way it is. Say it.”  
“I-I I can’t!”  
“Too bad for you. Say it.”

When he doesn’t obey, miserably trying to think of a way to get himself out of this unbearable predicament despite being perfectly aware of how futile it is, the respite she granted him comes to an end and she pushes the sword deeper, the pain he immediately feels convincing him that she must have pierced his gut —and he can’t, it’s too much, he feels himself being torn apart further, his abused hole clenching vainly in an attempt to protect itself but only paining him further, the skin breaking and himself along with it, and once again, he screams, though the anguished wail sounds rawer this time, and hoarser: he has reached his limit and she perfectly realizes it, yet she keeps going.  
“I really don’t know!” He cries out, unable to hold back the words or the tears, failing to even contain his pleas despite how unnatural they feel in his mouth. “I swear, I don’t, I! Sansa! I’ll do anything you want, just stop!”

Here it comes, _the empty promise_. Something inside of his mind knows, because it has seen it over and over again, exactly what it means. This is the end: now, there is nothing he hasn’t done that his usual victims did, except for dying, and he already feels dead, dead, dead, as dead as his father, as dead as everyone he has killed, as dead as Theon Greyjoy! Theon, Theon, the name seems to echo inside of him, he has heard it before, he feels like he destroyed that person, hasn’t he? Wasn’t there a time when he had the upper hand, torturing, raping and killing whenever he felt like it? It all seems blurry, veiled by the utmost pain and the cruel thrusts of iron that used to be icy and is now lukewarm thanks to the blood it is coated in —and it’s worse, so much worse, warming him in the most displeasing way that could exist—, yet the thought still nags him. Wasn’t he strong, at some point in the distant past? No. Impossible. So he begs.  
“Don’t! Sansa, don’t! Stop…”

But the gigantic blade keeps tearing at his insides, being pulled back over and over again, and each time, he thinks that she will stop, that it will all be over, but each time she just pushes it right back in —and his eyes turn glassy. Around this point, she slows down her pace, until she stopped completely, and he slightly comes back to his senses, barely enough to get a minor grasp on the situation, to even recall or comprehend where he is, what is happening to him and who she is except for his tormentor —let alone who he is himself.

She finally realizes that he truly will not recall her words, not if she does not repeat them. But she cannot let him off the hook, not for her own mental sake, not if she wants him to cease haunting her, nor can she simply do him a favor by repeating them so easily. He has not raised her to be like this.  
“Alright, I can see that you clearly did not care at all about what I was saying. I should punish you for it, but considering I am not a monster, I shall first give you one last chance… Let’s see if Theon there has paid more attention to the rules than you.”  
Ramsay’s sweaty brows crease, as he tries his best to understand her words, desperately clinging to the hope it will get him out of this predicament. He should know better, by now. But he doesn’t.

“I’m giving you three minutes to get the words out of your most loyal servant. That is, if you can get him to come out again… And if he even heeded what I said.” She looks at him with a despiteful frown, before shooting a glare at the firsthand witness of Ramsay’s humiliation. “Remember, Theon, you are not Reek.” She reminds him in a threatening voice, as if to warn him, to attempt to overpower Ramsay in every way —to steal even the control he has on his own servant. “Now… You may begin.”

His chest heaves suddenly, and his eyes widen, his mind barely grasping the situation at all. But, as she begins counting, he does not have much choice but to stop thinking about the pain and to focus on the matter at hand, a diffident, high-pitched voice he almost fails to recognize as his own stuttering a desperate plea.  
“R, Reek! You have to-have to tell me!” He hiccups, too scared, rushed and hurt to even register that he is _begging_ his _pet_. The gaunt silhouette trembles, seeming to hesitate. Ramsay cannot distinguish his features, can’t even tell if he is more Reek or Theon at that point, and it frightens him more than anything. He sobs, not even noticing that she is making him feel this imminency to keep him from having the time to process the situation, to remember for even one second _that he is Ramsay Bolton_. And, when the other man, so to speak, does not answer, he cries out. “Ple-please!”

And the unfamiliarity of the word that just slipped on his tongue does not even occur to him, nor does the fact that it is the first time he said it to anyone, perhaps with the exception of his father. A faint, almost muffled gasp escapes his only potential savior’s lips, and he gets the odd feeling that he stuffed his mouth with his sleeve, or whichever fabric he was able to get his hands on. And, miraculously, a voice answers his own: barely human, as strangled as it is stifled, and discordant, an odd, seemingly impossible combination between fear, love and something that had never been directed towards him before —pity. It would have angered him, usually, but now, the part of him that partially understands what is going on is grateful for it.

“L-Lady Sansa said that… That Master was but a wretched, vicious and ego-c-centric madman who… Who believes he is superior to everyone when, in reality, he is nothing but a… There was a word there, and, and then bastard, and… And then there was something but I can’t remember! I’m so, so-sorry…”  
“It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s all good, just please, please try to remember, you have to!”  
And while he utters these prayers, he desperately fumbles through his mind to search for the precious pieces of information, to solve the puzzle, but nothing comes, nothing, nothing, nothing, it remains desperately blank. He repeats the words in a strangled whisper, tests them on his tongue, wonders what could be the worst insults Sansa would think of, which names she would want to call him, but he can’t, his memories have been locked away and she is the one who has the key, but she won’t give it, and he sobs.

“Please…” He isn’t even sure who he is imploring now, her, Reek, or destiny itself.  
“Master…” A pleading whimper answers his own, and suddenly, one more puzzle piece comes back in place. _Loved by no one._ Loved by no one, who needs… What? He repeats the parts of the sentence he has already collected over and over again to make sure he will not forget them again, burning them inside of his head.

“The time is up.” Sansa’s deadly voice resonates, petrifying him again. “Now, will you admit what you are?”  
He feels the grip she has on the sword tightening threateningly, and shudders in response, before blurting out the words without wasting any time to try and avoid the fate she seems to promise him if he does not speak quickly enough.  
“I’m, but a wretched, vicious and egocentric mad, man, who believes-”  
Immediately, she thrusts her blade inside of his loosened yet still constricted hole again, eliciting a yelp from him.  
“Wrong” is the only thing she says before resuming her merciless torture, thoroughly unmoved by his tormented lamentations. He can do nothing but to weep soundly as he relentlessly searches for the right word, his pure despair and sheer panic displayed on his face.  
“Who, who… Who thinks?”  
She does not say anything, but ceases her pounding, and it is enough of an answer.

“Who thinks he is…”  
“No, start over from the beginning.” She wants to hear him without any interruption, wants the actual, tangible proof that he is too broken to ever hurt her again —that she is strong now.  
“I am but a wretched, vicious, egocentric madman, who thinks he is superior to everyone when…” He exhales sharply, his breathing ragged and painful. “In reality, he-”  
“Wrong again.” The pain comes once more, another unbearable wave of endless suffering, and he chokes on a sob, high-pitched moans escaping his throat as he tries possibilities again, searching for the right synonym like a lost wanderer would look for water in a desert.  
“Truly? Really!”  
Once again, the tempest dies down, and cold shivers run down his spine as he tries to catch his breath once more, barely able to pronounce the words for the third time between two pants.

“I am… But a wretched, vicious… Egocentric, madman, who thinks he… Is superior to everyone when, really, he is nothing but a…”  
He doesn’t know.

“But a?” She asks, her tone sharper than her blade and just as painful, and he freezes. He has no idea, no idea, no idea…  
“Talentless!” Reek yelps, and he seems more confident now, almost _exhilarated_ to say so, his voice a combination of the usual fear and a dark hatred he feels like he has heard before, a long, long time ago.  
“I believe I said the time was up.” Sansa immediately thunders, her voice the low, threatening growl of the wolf she is. “Should I punish you too?”  
“No.” And Reek almost doesn’t waver when he whispers this.  
“Perhaps. But do not forget I have not yet forgiven you. Still, considering the rules have been broken… _Someone_ has to pay.”  
“Wait!” Her miserable victim screams.  
“Will you cease giving me orders? You are not in any position to demand anything.” She spits out, her harsh sentences a venom she does not hesitate to spill as she rips him apart for what seems like the billionth time.  
“It wasn’t one! Please! Please, just wait!”  
“Why would I?”

He again doesn’t have an answer. So instead, he screams.  
“I am but a wretched, vicious, egocentric madman who thinks he is superior to everyone when, really, he is nothing but a talentless bastard loved by no one, who needs-” And suddenly, the words, though impossible for him to comprehend, come back to his mind, striking him like a miraculous thunderbolt. “To torture people in order to earn some vague semblance of respect!”

And, finally, the pounding stops altogether.  
“Uh. So you could remember, after all.”  
He shudders, his body shaking in pain and victory. He did it. He overcame the challenge she threw at him, he won! He almost can’t believe it, he did it, he did!  
“Now Ramsay, brace yourself, because I have ceased being soft.”

For an instant, in stark contrast to her words, her smile is almost kind —but it only lasts during a split second, and the next, it turns into a horrifying smirk, as she suddenly grips the handle tighter, and _**moves the sword**_. And suddenly, all of the pain he thought was the worst one could possibly experience seems to be nothing, as a new wave of agony hits him like a lightning bolt, and for a second his mind hesitates between letting out another shriek or cry, but instead he blacks out, but it is only for a short, blessed second, and the next he is awake and conscious again and he is screaming, his voice hoarse and wounded and he almost wonders if his vocal cords have been ripped apart for good but the ache is too strong and blows that thought away from him, along with any he could have clang to in order to forget the agonizing pain, and he is hurt and hurt and hurt and nothing makes sense and he is no longer Ramsay Bolton or anyone and Sansa is not there and neither is Reek and nothing exists anymore but the pain, the burning inferno, the feel of his outstretched insides being stretched even more, as the instrument of his demise, it does not even matter what, is pushed further inside his body through his tight, injured hole, and the feeling of iron against skin and the coppery taste of blood on his mouth overwhelm him and he whites out.

For an all-too-brief instant, he wonders if he died like this, and he is almost about to be madder than he has ever been and simply so, so furious because he just can’t die like that, can’t die from such a laughable cause, but at the same time, the shame is too unbearable and… He will never gain back his honor, not after this, he won’t ever be able to cleanse his reputation… And if he has to die to escape this pain, then be it, he would rather be killed by such a shameful way of being impaled than to have to suffer through this for one more second —but just as he thinks that, the blissful moment of rest ends and he is back to his body, and to the ordeal, and he isn’t sure anymore if he is screaming or yelling or howling, but what he is sure of is that it hurts, and it does, maybe he is already dead and this is Hell, he has never believed in any of the Gods but it sure does feel like the promised punishment for sinners and heretics, and yet he prays for it to stop, and he just sobs again as his jaw is as outstretched as his insides to accommodate his throat-ripping cries, and his body tries to move his hands on its own to hit his aggressor, to make her go away, to stop the torture, but he can’t, and suddenly she ceases pushing the sword and for a second he blesses everyone and everything on the entire planet, and the older and newer Gods too and even the Red God and the Drowned God and any god he has never even heard of, and the pain is still overwhelming his every sense but it’s so, so less horrible, and he feels like he might die at any moment and like no one could ever stand that pain, and yet it’s not as awful. Again, it takes him long minutes to calm down, and he isn’t sure why she does not move anymore: because she has taken pity upon him, because her ears need a rest from the animalistic screaming, or for a whole other reason? _Oh please, let it be the former._ Ramsay hates himself —and her even more— for thinking this, for looking for her mercy, but in this moment, he can’t even bring himself to chastise his own mind for these treacherous thoughts: because it’s true. No matter what the price is, he wants it to stop, even if it means having his honor muddied, even if it means begging.

“Please…” He whimpers between two broken sobs and shudders. “Please, stop… Take it ou, out… Leave me… Alone…”

This time, the grin on her face is not even hidden: either she has ceased caring about pretending to be too superior to enjoy such a sight, either she simply cannot control her features anymore. He lets out a strangled cry. _She won’t stop._ He thinks, and his already irregular breathing turns into a panicked panting. She is mad, mad, mad, mad and madder than this, she was not even his best plaything and now she has turned into a monster, and —and it’s because of him. All of this, it’s his own damn fault, he is the one who angered her, no, who maddened her. He brought this upon himself, didn’t he? He thought he was the best, that nobody could get to him… And here he is now, defiled and destroyed by his own prized possession. If he hadn’t done it, had left the wolf alone… He really made the wrong choice, didn’t he? Out of all the women there ever were… He should have killed this one when he had the chance. Should have had children with Myranda, and claimed the Stark’s blood was flowing in their veins, it would have been so, so much simpler… He whimpers miserably, and breaks down, sniffling and crying for the third or fourth time now, or mayhap more, he cannot even remember. He had never cried before. Or perhaps when he was younger, too young to have any recollection of it. He enjoyed seeing other people break down and burst into tears, but now that he is at the other end of the rope, he hates it. It’s pathetic and a weakness and only adds humiliation to injury, pouring salt into the wound. And oh, he really doesn’t need the supplementary sting. The impossible ache is more than enough, this sharp torture he had never known before, the wildfire inside of him, burning instead of warming and turning his pride to dust, and… She only needs to give a light push to shatter him again, blowing up his insides and pouring oil into the fire and he feels as though he has been ripped in half, his flesh torn apart as easily as her own dress on the night of her wedding and he barely has the courage to look, but he still does, and the sword is half in, and his entire world is nothing but pain and this is the worse moment of his life and suddenly a thought hits him, she does not plan on shoving it entirely inside, does she?! She can’t, she can’t, he would die before it were all the way in, he would even black out again if she moved it at all now, but then she does, she twists it and turns it and takes it half the way in then half the way out, and for a brief second, a memory hits him and he understands —it is the very same pattern he followed during their first night together. The next, he collapses, not unlike her on this very same night. Somewhere in his mind, he can still feel the sword pounding, before he is out for good.

 

 

When he wakes up, she is still here, looming over him, as if waiting for him to wake up, in order to let him know that this wasn’t a nightmare, that all of it was very real, and that it will be his reality from now on. Somewhere inside his mind, something reminds him that he did the exact same thing —and it sickens him. Everything hurts, and a spasm causes him to vomit again, bile and blood on his chest and shoes, and a cold shiver runs down his spine as he breathes painfully. At least she removed the sword and pulled his breeches back up at some point, but it will not restore his dignity. Nothing ever will. His thorax heaves in a dry sob, and he realizes he is even out of tears to spill. He is not ready for it, but she still speaks.

“I used to be a naive, foolish sheltered princess, but you, along with many others, have turned me into a wolf —the direwolf from my House’s banner. But so are you, spoiled little Lord who had never seen anything of the real world and thought he was smarter and scarier than any other. So one day, I shall return the favor —turn you for good into what your House’s symbol represents, have you tied to a cross and flayed for days and days, bit by bit, layer by layer, then let you rot there and be eaten by animals, while making sure you stay alive for as long as your pathetic body is able to in this situation. Perhaps I’ll even let your _loyal_ hounds feast on your flesh, if I have not decided to put them down in the meantime —in front of your eyes, of course. Until then, I will make sure to flay your mind. For each time you have raped me, I will do the same to you with this sword, and for each girl you have abused before hunting, a man will do it as many times as you have, obviously with a different kind of sword. I’ve made sure that the time between each assault would be equivalent to the time you would wait before growing bored and destroying someone for your twisted pleasure again. See, the stories you used to tell me to frighten me will have proven useful.”

“Wait”, he chokes on a sob, his chest heaving and collapsing again at an irregular, overly quick pace. “Wait! It wasn’t the truth, I was bragging, I’ve made up half of them, I-”  
“Of course you have.” She interrupts him, not believing the lie one second, and the corners of her mouth raise up almost imperceptibly. “But then, you would have to be punished for boasting, don’t you think?”  
His eyes widening in pure horror, realizing he has no way to escape his predicament, he twists and turns, desperately tugging at his manacles even though he knows well how unbreakable they are —exactly as much as he isn’t—, but he has not an ounce of strength left in his entire body and every movement is a new ordeal altogether: and so, he just goes limp against the wall after a few weak, pathetic attempts. He then begins crying tearlessly twice harder. “Please, please, no, don’t, I can’t, I won’t be able to take it, don’t, don’t, I need, please…”  
“Tell me, Ramsay… How many of your victims did you spare when they begged for your mercy?”

He doesn’t say anything, too exhausted for this and he knows it’s a rhetorical question and there is nothing he could tell her that would save him, and he just keeps panting so rapidly his lungs are burning, yet he cannot control his panicked breaths and continues to hurt himself further, and he is frightened and sore and scared and crushed and he wants to _die_ —but he won’t. Not so easily.

“That’s right, none. So why should I have pity for you? You have to learn your lesson. Besides… Have you ever tortured any of them for a real reason? Not just a ridiculous excuse? Other than for fun?”  
He whimpers, before closing his wet eyes, guttural moans coming out of his throat as he tries and fails not to think about how much his entrails _burn_.

“Exactly. But I… I have a perfectly good reason for doing this to you. Vengeance. And still, I am quite nice —I could have you flayed then resurrected and flayed all over again, then repeat the process as many times as you have ripped apart innocent men in this way. I heard some of the Red God’s worshippers have the power of bringing the dead back to life, without stripping them of who they were before. It has happened to my half-brother. But I have no desire to waste so much time on you. Consider yourself lucky.”

Of course it was a lie, for only a life could pay for a life, and she would have had to burn many men to get her revenge this way, to bring him back without seeing him losing parts of himself in the process. She was not about to let such a thing happen, especially considering she knew the existence she’d force him to live would be enough retribution — _he was so frail after all, so easy to break for good_ —. But he needn’t know this: it was better if he believed, in his last moments, that the nightmare could at any time start all over again, better if she could taunt him about it, whisper these words in his ear every time he would try to comfort himself by thinking that _at least_ , after all of this, he wouldn’t have to suffer.

He does not even beg this time, as the complete understanding of the situation dawns on him, and that her words sink deep into his heart, setting it ablaze with cold fear, the worse venom that exists.

She enjoys the sight of pure dread twisting his exhausted features, familiar enough with it to feel the taste of his demise on her tongue —and it is as glorious and sweet as she had expected. Her parting words spoken and their impact measured, she moves away from him, opening the cell’s door then closing it behind her. But, as she is about to leave the room entirely, Reek’s form, eerily less broken than per usual, walks over to her and murmurs in her ear words he cannot catch. Her face hardens for a moment, but after a renewed amount of hushed whispers, the stiff frown is replaced by a blank expression, and she reaches for her cleavage again. A combination of anxiety and hope sends the chained man’s heart racing as she hands the key to Reek —it cannot be good if she agreed, but what if he was faking being Theon Greyjoy once more, if he lied to her to be able to free him? Ramsay has taught him how to do that, after all, and yes, his pet has to remember his training, he can’t have wiped it off his mind so easily, broken pieces don’t magically fall back in place, mend and form a man again, it has to be Reek, it is Reek, he is still loyal to him and he will rescue him, pull him off this nightmare, and Sansa is foolish to have lent him the key, and even more simpleminded to get out of the dungeon without sending anyone to take her place to watch over them, and she shall regret her idiocy, he will make her pay for humiliating him —no, no, this wouldn’t be wise, she would just slither out of his hands and bite him again, he shall kill her immediately and get his revenge by capturing and torturing the last living members of her family, Jon Snow and the other Stark boy if he even survived that long, yes, this will make him feel better, will restore his dignity, will remove the torn of shame and pain in his heart. His breathing turns frantic and expectant, his eyes widen and his lips curve into a smile as Reek unlocks the door and slowly approaches him, he can feel the instant he will regain freedom growing nearer with each step his servant takes, and he almost shudders when Reek cups his cheek in one hand and softly, gently caresses it in a soothing gesture, not unlike a lover would. Ramsay is not really used to this, it resembles more to something he would do to further gain his trust, but be it, if his pet wants to prove him that he is still faithful to him, that he hasn’t ceased loving him, he has no need for him to refrain from doing so —he will punish him for his earlier betrayal and Myranda’s murder later, or perhaps he’ll even spare him for once to reward him for his redemption and help, yes, the guilt of disappointing such a lenient master shall be enough. Yet, when Reek opens his mouth and speaks, Ramsay’s heart skips a beat. Because the voice that comes out of it is tender, fond, seductive almost, but —Theon’s.

“I don’t love you. I never will, and never have. I have loved a lot of people, and will love more. But not you. Because you are not only a bastard, but also, most of all, a monster… Ramsay.”

And with these parting words, he just leaves. And somehow, as Ramsay watches him disappear into the distance, while he just wants to scream at him to come back but won’t, definitely won’t, he knows: out of all the bruises that have been inflicted to him that day, to his ego, his dignity, his mind, his body and his heart —this is the one that will leave the deepest scar.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so... First, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and this story in general (Unless you're like me and you prefer to read the notes first, and then the chapter. In that case dear, you'd better stop right there because my notes are dark and full of spoilers.) ! Anyway, I know I should not do this because... Well, because a good story should speak by itself, you shouldn't have anything to add, but I still do because... Better be safe than sorry, I guess ? But well. First of all, I think I could have developed Sansa and Ramsay's feelings and situation at the beginning way more, then again, I'm afraid that if I had been too thorough, it would have ended up being boring... So, I was kind of stuck between a rock and a hard place, and I hope I made the right call when I chose to limit the... Foreplay... This is not the right term, I know, but I think it fits better. And even if it doesn't... Well, I don't care anyway, I like Misfits ;). Anyway, this could have been way longer, so let me know if longer would have been better or if longer isn't better, it just depends on how you use it (so many jokes...). Because, to me, it just seems like my Sansa is pretty transparent, she just wants to break Ramsay to stop being afraid of him and to stop being weak, and she keeps on a mask of cold indifference because she wants to seem superior to him, but they both know she enjoys this, and she wants it to be that way because she both want him to feel inferior to her and to be outraged by the knowledge that she is enjoying his humiliation. The end. There's nothing to add. While Ramsay is just... Ramsay. So, I didn't feel like it was necessary, then again, I might have been wrong.  
> Also, you may think that my Ramsay is too weak, yet at the same time, that he regressed in the end, because he just went back to being his usual self... (Also, the way he thinks he will spare Reek for once is not kindness. He is just so sure he has complete control over him that he truly believes that Reek will feel extremely guilty, enough for it to be a suitable punishment, and maybe even punish himself on his own if it's not enough, if he spares him. Huge ego spotted, I know. Then again, I kind of think it would be true... Well, if it were still Reek he was talking to ;).) But to me, it just seems like Ramsay would be kind of like... A reed. He is frail and weak because he has never known pain (Or, rather... He knows pain quite well. But he has never experienced feeling pain himself, especially not physical pain.), but thus, he bends but does not break. Or actually, he could break, but it would be harder. Then again, I might be overestimating him... On the other hand : Oak + Reed = Reek (and o, a, d but I don't know what to do with them so let's throw them away). It's perfect ! A match made in Heaven, with the angels singing and God's approval ! (Alright, probably not... Unless your God is Euron perhaps.)  
> But anyway, please let me know if you thought I was going too far or that the characters seemed out of character. And once again, I hope you enjoyed my (twisted) story !


	3. Bonus (fanart)

Alright so I made (terrible) fanart (don't click if you want to keep your eyes) of Ramsay and had no idea where to put it so here you go. (I am not kidding when I say don't click, it's plain awful even by my standards, and they're pretty low. I don't think I had ever been legitimately pained by watching a drawing before, except once, and I've seen a fair share of drawings. In my defense, the shadows have completely disappeared thanks to poor lighting and it kills me.) /><https://lordessc.tumblr.com/post/183676699907/i-deeply-and-thoroughly-apologize-to-iwan-rheon>


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